Snow
by stress
Summary: One grown former newsie ponders the parallels between Christmas, an early snowfall and innocence lost as he makes his way home on Christmas Eve, 1909.


Author's Note: _Well, it's been _ages _since I decided to write a one shot and since Christmas is in two days, I thought I would try to write something for the holiday. It's a short, simple piece and, I promise, I'm not as bitter about the upcoming holiday as I seem ;) Enjoy and Merry Christmas!_

Disclaimer: _The characters in this short piece are the property of Disney, ©1992—, and are from the musical, _Newsies_. The lyrics from the first quote are from the Josh Groban song, "Believe" from _Polar Express_; the second is from the holiday classic, "White Christmas"._

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Snow

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_We were dreamers not so long ago but, one by one, we all have to grow up…_

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Snow.

It's December 24th—Christmas Eve, 1909—and it's snowing.

Now, it isn't snowing all that heavy really and many of the tiny, tiny flakes are being swallowed up by the night, disappearing before they even find the dirty road. The wind only comes and goes—a whisper here, a gust there and he's currently ignoring it.

But it _is _cold.

He's a tall man, a broad man, muscled and toned from close to a decade of factory work but as he hunches over, fighting off the cold and letting the wind whip past him, you would never know it. Dark, shaggy hair covers dark, lifeless eyes as he shuffles his way down Second Avenue.

A long held habit entices him to reach behind him for a hat but, of course, he doesn't find one. When he doesn't even have a coat a hat is a luxury he can't afford.

He'd had a coat, a good one too, but coats can only last for so long and his coat had served its last winter the year before. 1908-9 had been a brutal winter—worse than the ones he remembers hawking headlines in—and he's surprised he's even made it to see this one.

The coat had been a grave loss but, he figures, at least it ain't a grave.

He's hunched over, ducking his head down so that he can see where he's going but nothing else, trudging on through this almost snow. He rubs his bare arms, knocking any of the stray flakes off of his skin before they can melt, trying his best to pretend he's not as cold as he is.

If he could shiver, he would. But grown men don't shiver.

Besides, it's not like he's never seen a New York Winter before. In New York, winter's always waiting.

So, despite the bitter cold and, whenever he dares to lift his head, the frequent sting of the falling snow against his chapped cheeks and weathered face, he continues shuffling down the near empty street. The swagger and strut he knew as a boy are long gone; he's walking automatically, heading home, but going as slowly as he can if only because it was Christmas Eve and he has nothing to go home to.

But there is a home. A one room lodging, not too far from the factory he spends all of his time at. Nothing too big, but at least he doesn't have to share a bunkroom with countless other orphans and runaways—just a family of rats, instead.

He doesn't know which one is better. And he doesn't care anymore.

He's even, in his own way, done up his room for the upcoming holiday. At the very least he set up a small, beleaguered Christmas tree in the corner opposite of his worn cot. It's a tiny thing, hardly more than seven branches tied together with a bit of twine, but it's there—and not because he expects anything to be put under it (he doesn't) but because that one symbol, that simple tree, _is _Christmas to him.

The old man who ran the Lodging House over on Duane, the one he stayed at for all those years when he was a kid, used to put up a small tree in the lobby every year. Later, when he struck out on his own, he felt obligated to do the same.

He was a dreamer then, even at seventeen, and always had a soft spot for Christmas. Along with that small token of the holiday spirit that Ol' Kloppman set up for the boys, the CAS (the Children's Aid Society) always served up one hell of a dinner for the lodgers.

Everyone was nicer in December, he thought, and the cold didn't seem so cold then. Newspapers were easier to sell, bread was easier to come by and the Nuns were much more generous when it came to breakfast. Sure, they had to listen to a couple extra lectures around Christmastime but it was worth it.

Wasn't it?

It seemed like it then—now, though, he's not too sure. There's not too much he's sure about nowadays.

Except for one thing and that's this:

He used to be a dreamer… but then he had to grow up.

So he tucked away any lingering dreams he had left—there weren't many left—and put his troubled childhood behind him. He said goodbye to his pals—there weren't many of them left, either—and left the Lodging House behind him.

Growing up, in his case and many, many others, has meant a factory job, living on his own in a two-bit hovel and being alone…

Always alone.

He's one of a kind, lost in a city of hundreds—thousands—more even. His uniqueness—the very traits that made him _him_—has made him unmemorable.

He's bitter now, the grown man succumbing to the darkness that a lost childhood brings. Christmas Eve is just another day—Christmas too—one that will pass just like the many that came before it (and hopefully will come after it).

Christmas used to be a beautiful time of year, even when all he could expect was a hot meal and a warm bed—it was enough and he could celebrate in his own way. But not now. There isn't anything to celebrate now.

With age comes wisdom, sure, but it also comes with cynicism. The magic of innocence fades, almost as quickly as that of a flurrying snowflake, and, before long, all that's left of a long ago dreamer is disdain.

In a way, he thinks as he continues to battle the elements and his own self-worth, the snow is like that too.

When you're young, with your life spread out—untainted—before you, the snow is precious, the idea that each flake is different amazing. It's beautiful, it's surreal. All white and fluffy… and _innocent_. The purity of the snowfall is innocence before your eyes.

But then you grow up.

Everyone has to grow up.

And just like all of his childhood dreams—he can still hear the far off whistle of a railway train if he listens hard enough—and his wishes and his hopes, the magic of snow—like the magic of cowboys, the magic of the West… and the magic of Christmas—fades and you're left with nothing but the cold, hard truth.

You're left with dirty slush and heaps of ice. And cold.

Life makes you cold. And he's not about to shiver.

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_I'm dreaming of a white Christmas…_

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The snow's picking up now, the wind he's still trying his damndest to ignore whirling the pristine flakes around manically.

He's trying to ignore that, too. It's not working, so he picks up his pace a bit, matching the newfound speed of the much larger flakes that are, one by one, starting to stick to the well-traveled road.

Snow.

It's December 24th—Christmas Eve, 1909—and it's snowing.

Who knows? It just might be a white Christmas…

He snorts to himself as he rubs his bare arms again, head still bowed to the wind and the snow.

There ain't ever any white Christmas's in Santa Fe.


End file.
